by Daisy Styles
‘Get them down you; you all look worn out,’ she said, as she shook salt and vinegar into the open bags of chips.
‘It’s been a long day,’ Gladys yawned. ‘But your chips are already making me feel better, Edna,’ she added gratefully.
‘Mmm, best in town!’ Nora announced as she scrunched up the newspaper wrapping and dropped it into a nearby dustbin.
When the girls looked significantly refreshed, Edna said, ‘Well, me and Malc have finally set our wedding date – it’s going to be Christmas Eve!’
As her friends warmly congratulated her, Edna quickly came to the point. ‘I need help, ladies, I’ve never been wed before and I don’t know, what’s the word …?’ She snapped her fingers as she tried to remember. ‘The protocol! That’s it, you know, bride’s side, groom’s side, and all that organizing stuff.’
Violet and Kit, with recent experience of their own weddings, were the first to make suggestions.
‘First things first,’ Kit said. ‘What are you going to wear on your wedding day?’
‘I’m not dressing up as Father Christmas, if that’s what you’re expecting,’ irrepressible Edna joked.
Recalling her own heavenly wedding day, Violet smiled romantically. ‘Then there’s the guest list and wedding breakfast,’ she said. ‘Not to mention the flowers and the church.’
‘And the honeymoon!’ Nora chuckled.
Edna burst out laughing. ‘Malc’s in charge of the honeymoon.’
‘You could have your reception at the Black Bull in town; it’s right by the church, so you wouldn’t have far to walk in your glad rags if it’s snowing,’ Maggie suggested.
‘Good idea,’ Edna said gratefully. ‘But the food will be basic, what with rationing.’
‘You could park your mobile chippy round the back and we could feast on chips and fritters,’ Nora said wistfully.
‘It’s mi wedding day, lovie, I don’t want to be taking mi vows wearing a pinny smelling of chip fat and with mi hair stuffed under a turban!’ Edna laughed as she handed round Woodbines to the smokers.
‘I’m sure everybody will help with the wedding breakfast,’ Maggie said eagerly. ‘Our Emily has given me some tips on cooking with rationed food. She’s got a great alternative for roast turkey: it’s made of sausage meat and herbs, with two parsnips for legs.’
‘Won’t it look funny?’ Nora asked with a puzzled expression.
Maggie nodded. ‘Mebbe, but it tastes good, especially with roast potatoes and fresh veg off the allotments.’
Edna smiled gratefully. ‘I know your Em’s a genius at inventing something out of nothing, but we’ll have to make a little go a very long way,’ she pointed out.
‘I know,’ Maggie replied. ‘But we can still use our imagination, can’t we?’
Seeing her pretty face colour with excitement, Edna nodded. ‘We can give it a go – as long as it’s an improvement on spam hash or Lord Woolton Pie, I’ll be happy.’
‘I’d love to help you choose your wedding dress,’ said stylish Violet, who knew all the latest wartime fashions and was handy with a sewing machine too.
Kit nodded excitedly. ‘We could set a date and have a look round the big Co-op store in Piccadilly; they do everything – hats, suits, frocks and shoes.’
‘Don’t forget Glad is a genius with make-up,’ Maggie reminded everybody. ‘Remember how you used to make us all up before we went on stage, Glad?’
Gladys, who’d been relatively quiet up to now, answered with an obliging smile. ‘Yes, of course, with pleasure.’
‘And I insist on the Bomb Girls’ Swing Band playing all the wedding songs,’ Edna added excitedly. ‘ “Here Comes the Bride” and “In the Mood”, whilst we sign the register, and “Alexander’s Ragtime Band” when we leave the church.’
Nora and Maggie literally skipped on the spot with excitement. ‘Yes, yes, yes!’ they cried gleefully.
Gladys, who was feeling secretly guilty at her reluctance to be involved in any musical activities, reminded her friends that because of poor Myrtle’s condition they wouldn’t have a pianist. The bubble of happiness that had been growing around the wedding plans suddenly deflated a little.
‘Oh, God,’ sighed dismayed Violet. ‘How could we have forgotten?’
Tears filled Edna’s eyes. ‘It won’t be the same without her,’ she murmured.
‘She’ll be heart-broken not to be there for your big day,’ Kit said quietly.
‘If she should live that long,’ Gladys added sadly.
Rosa, who’d barely spoken until now, was the one to break the long, sad silence. ‘I play piano,’ she said hesitantly. As her friends turned to her in amazement, she quickly and very self-consciously added, ‘I know I not your dear friend, but if I can do something for the wedding, Edna, I be so happy.’
Grateful and very relieved, Edna leant across to kiss Rosa. ‘That’s very kind of you, lovie, though I have to warn you about the rehearsals – they’ll take up a lot of your spare time.’
Rosa smiled cheerfully. ‘I no mind – really.’ As she responded, Rosa caught Gladys’s eye. ‘But I know somebody who will,’ she thought to herself.
Oblivious to Gladys’s discomfort, Nora beamed at all her friends. ‘It’ll be just like old times,’ she said happily. ‘The Bomb Girls’ Swing Band are back in business!’
As her friends chatted excitedly, Gladys avoided eye contact with Rosa, who was watching her like a hawk; with a sinking heart Gladys now knew for sure that there would be a revival of the swing band to celebrate Edna’s wedding, and that she would have to play whether she liked it or not.
8. Belmont Sanatorium
All of the girls continued to visit Myrtle in the sanatorium, but, again, it was Gladys who spent more time there than anybody. She found her visits oddly peaceful: the steep climb over the moors in blustery autumn gales or on soft golden afternoons, when the sun lingered on the sharp crags and moorland ridges as if it was loath to abandon the world to winter. Gladys took to making a flask of Camp chicory coffee laced with a dash of condensed milk, which she would sip from a little cup as she sat on her favourite boulder, which simultaneously gave her the best views of two counties: the vast sweep of Yorkshire, to the east of the Pennines, and Lancashire, stretching out west towards the glittering Irish Sea.
It was impossible for her thoughts not to fly back to Naples and the views she’d seen there. Even from the wrecked beaches, where bombed-out ships lay prone on their rusty sides like huge abandoned dinosaurs, there’d be scenes that took her breath away. Vesuvius smoking in the far distance; the Isle of Capri shimmering in the heat on a clear day; and the countryside too, especially where they’d set up camp off the busy roads packed with army trucks, jeeps and marching soldiers. She’d seen wild flowers she didn’t recognize and songbirds whose names she didn’t know, and in the night she’d heard the sound of nightingales warbling melodiously across empty valleys until dawn broke and their song hushed. Lovely memories that were always tarnished by the event that had sent her packing back to England with terror in her heart.
Myrtle looked better for being in the sanatorium: her colour was improving thanks to sitting on the hospital balconies, where she could get the sun on her face or a breeze on her cheeks, but most importantly she was able to inhale pure fresh air. Nevertheless, she had little appetite; the effort of eating exhausted her and often brought on a coughing attack, so she looked thin and her formerly rosy, plump face was sallow and sunken. What she liked best was to lie back in a comfortable chair in the large, communal sitting room and listen to classical music on the wireless: her haggard face visibly relaxed and her eyes grew dreamy and far away, as if she could see something wonderful waiting for her just out of reach. Gladys loved to find her like this, contented and at peace. Often she’d sit with Myrtle on these occasions, holding her friend’s limp white hand as they listened to Schubert, Handel, Mozart and Beethoven. One afternoon, as the sun was setting over the moors and the music reached an aching cresce
ndo, Myrtle said quite unexpectedly, ‘Tell me if it’s none of my business, but I would very much like to understand what’s taken the light out of your eyes, my dear child. You are not the same girl we waved off to Italy last year …’
Gladys groaned under her breath. ‘Bloody Nora’s been blabbing!’ she thought crossly.
Moving uneasily in her chair, she said, ‘It’s complicated.’
‘Dying’s complicated,’ Myrtle replied, not unkindly. ‘But we all must face it one day.’
Gladys sighed and stood to stare out of the large window that gave a view of the bright orange sun sinking over the dark moors, where she could hear birds calling.
Drawing in a ragged breath, Myrtle added wheezily, ‘Did you get into trouble out there?’
Seeing poor Myrtle struggling to get the words out, Gladys felt ashamed of herself. Returning to the chair she’d just vacated, Gladys said simply, ‘Yes, that’s exactly what happened to me out there, Myrtle, I got into big trouble.’ Then she somehow managed to stumble through the shameful sequence of events that had brought her, defeated and depressed, back to England. Myrtle waited until Gladys’s trembling hand had stilled before she asked, ‘Did you report him?’
Gladys shook her head, then briskly wiped away her tears. ‘I didn’t tell a soul, I was so ashamed.’
‘You poor child,’ Myrtle managed to wheeze compassionately. ‘You must have yearned to come home, to find sanctuary.’
‘I was desperate to get away,’ Gladys confessed. ‘Plus I was terrified he’d come back and find me and … you know, do it again.’ Her voice broke as she relived the fear she’d experienced. ‘I begged to return to England on the grounds of my poor health; to be honest, it was no lie. I was a bag of nerves, hardly sleeping, not eating.’
Myrtle nodded. ‘It was a wise move to get away from him, but if his actions go unreported it will happen again to yet another unsuspecting innocent girl.’
‘I thought of that,’ Gladys guiltily admitted. ‘I sometimes wonder how many other poor girls have been victim to his unwanted approaches.’
Weak as she was, Myrtle was forceful in her response. ‘You must stop brooding on the past, Gladys, it’s not good for you. You cannot allow a man of violence to destroy your life. He’s stolen not only your glorious voice but your radiance too.’
‘I swore I’d never sing again,’ Gladys confessed. ‘I always associate being happy and singing more than I’ve ever done in my entire life with the start of my troubles.’
‘And I understand why you would think that, but, dear girl, it is a very simplistic line to take, rather childish, in fact,’ she added with a touch of the old strict Myrtle in her voice. ‘You’re suggesting that by singing you attract the wrong kind of man, the sort who has only one thing on his mind. Is that correct?’
Feeling a little foolish, Gladys avoided eye contact with Myrtle but gave a brief nod.
‘Nobody hurt you or abused you when you were singing up and down the country with the Bomb Girls’ Swing Band; nobody hurt you, apart from the once, all the time you were touring with ENSA.’
Again, Gladys gave a brief nod.
‘I think you’re being superstitious, clinging on to a belief that removing something precious from your life will protect you, when all the time it’s destroying you.’
Gladys finally looked up at Myrtle, who by now was clearly struggling for breath and exhausted from the exertion of expressing herself as forcefully as she had needed to. ‘Rosa said something very similar,’ Gladys admitted.
‘And Rosa’s right,’ Myrtle managed. ‘God in his wisdom gave you a wonderful gift … use it,’ she gasped.
‘Please, Myrtle, stop,’ Gladys implored, moved beyond words by her dear friend’s attempts to help her.
But Myrtle was determined to finish the conversation she’d initiated. ‘Let him go to the devil,’ she rasped. ‘That’s where men like him belong. But you’re a creature of light – don’t go into the darkness, dear child. Sing …’
As Myrtle crumpled with sheer exhaustion, Gladys still cursed the odious naval captain who’d almost ruined her life, but her dearest friend, virtually at death’s doorstep, had managed to shift something in her and made her see things differently. Suddenly galvanized, she exclaimed, ‘You’re so right, Myrtle! I won’t give in to him!’
‘Good,’ Myrtle wheezed, managing a weak smile. ‘Good … very good.’
Gladys leant over and kissed her thin, flushed cheek. ‘Thank you, Myrtle.’
The older woman smiled wanly. ‘You’re welcome, dear. Now, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll rest.’
On the bus going home, Gladys realized that she’d never mentioned to Myrtle the other man who had had such an impact on her during her time in Naples and who had been adding to her woes, though for different reasons. Thanks to Myrtle’s straight talking, she was finally starting to see beyond just the negative aspects of her ENSA experience; there were undoubtedly wonderful days that sprang to mind, but the truly unforgettable golden day she allowed herself to remember now was the one on which she’d first met Dr Reggie Lloyd.
Sinking back into that precious memory, she recalled how the troupe had just completed a tour of duty and were taking advantage of the sunshine on their first day off in weeks. She could picture the scene with no difficulty at all: after taking it in turns to shower, the girls lay sunbathing in swimsuits and shorts, when they were disturbed by an orderly telling them that a naval doctor would shortly be arriving.
‘Tell him to sod off!’ cackled one of the cheekier girls. ‘We’re on the road again tomorrow – we deserve a break.’
‘He’s been ordered to inoculate the lot of you against smallpox and diphtheria,’ the orderly said. ‘So be grateful for small mercies.’
‘Grateful!’ the cheeky girl scoffed. ‘For having a bloody big needle shoved in mi arm – I don’t think so!’
But when Dr Lloyd arrived on his motorbike, all complaints faded. As he switched off the bike’s engine and dismounted, not a girl on site failed to notice his muscular body and the shock of dark hair that fell over his mesmerizing silver-blue eyes. He unstrapped his Gladstone medical bag from the back of the bike, and the girl nearest to Gladys moaned softly under her breath, ‘God! If he’s the doctor, I want to be the nurse!’
Though the temperature was up in the nineties, Dr Lloyd barely broke a sweat as he walked towards his skimpily clad patients, who winked cheekily as they extended their bare arms to him. Washing his hands in a metal bowl of cold water, Dr Lloyd donned a starched white medical coat, then calmly proceeded to inoculate each girl in turn. Exchanging little pleasantries, he worked quietly and efficiently until he came face to face with Gladys. At the sight of her long brunette hair swinging around her slender, tanned shoulders, Dr Lloyd stopped in his tracks, and when their eyes locked they both smiled quite spontaneously, as if they’d known each other before. Gladys’s pulse raced, not at the sight of the long needle poised over her arm but at the electricity that she sensed flowing between them. When Reggie touched her damp skin with his cool, tapered fingers, she suppressed a gasp of pleasure.
‘This shouldn’t hurt,’ he said softly.
He was right: Gladys was so wrapped up in the moment she didn’t feel a thing.
Aware of his eyes, which he wasn’t able to stop sweeping over her chest, amply exposed by her halter-neck swimsuit, Gladys felt a blush rise from her neck to her forehead.
‘Ooh, he fancies you!’ cried several of the girls as Dr Lloyd, having finished his task, drove away on his motorbike. Gladys, sunbathing under a tall palm tree, waved away their teasing remarks, but the memory of the doctor’s charming smile, his full lips, the dimple in his right cheek and his straight white teeth were firmly imprinted on her memory.
They next met again on board a ship when the ENSA troupe were entertaining a crowd of noisy sailors who wolf-whistled, cheered and joined in every single song they sang. Wearing her red silk dress and swinging to the rhythm of her alto sax, Gla
dys felt Reggie’s eyes on her before she even saw him. Her skin started to tingle when she instinctively sensed he was out there watching her, and when she scanned the crowd their eyes locked just as they had the first time she’d met him. Briefly faltering over the seductive rendition of ‘South of the Border’ she was singing, Gladys found her knees going weak with desire. Forcing herself to focus on the music, she concluded her act with a foot-tapping rendition of ‘Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy’ that sent the audience wild. Clapping and cheering, they begged for more, but Gladys bowed her farewell and, blowing kisses, left the stage for the next act, a middle-aged comedian with a penny whistle who wasn’t at all well received.
Unfortunately, somebody else also noticed her that night: Captain Tony Miles, the ship’s captain, who had a penchant for beautiful, long-legged brunettes. As a happy smiling Gladys left the stage with Reggie’s handsome face firmly in her mind, the captain grabbed her by the hand. ‘Let me buy you a drink, sweetheart,’ he said in a booming commanding voice, which Gladys immediately resented. Shaking off his clammy hand, she tried to move away from him, but he followed her, this time grabbing her by the shoulder as he repeated his request.
‘No!’ Gladys cried. ‘Leave me alone. I’m meeting somebody.’
‘Who?’ he drawled in a voice that stank of whisky.
To Gladys’s delight and astonishment, Reggie stepped in front of her. ‘Me,’ he confidently announced and, taking Gladys by the hand, he led her away.
‘Thank you so much,’ Gladys whispered as she hurried after her rescuer. ‘The brute was pestering me.’
‘I could see that,’ Reggie replied with a knowing smile. ‘He likes to chase women into submission; he has an outmoded Neanderthal view that the female of the species enjoys the chase,’ he said with a sardonic laugh.
Reggie led Gladys to the prow of the ship, which was less crowded and noisy, and, leaning over the railings, they stared out at the lapping waves and the myriad stars in the dark sky. ‘This is beautiful,’ she sighed. She felt Reggie’s eyes on her once more, sweeping over her in the thin red dress that showed every curve and contour of her body. She had an overwhelming urge to reach up and stroke his face, then kiss his lovely curving lips. Staring at each other, they both hesitated, and the trembling moment was lost when a drunken sailor came reeling towards them, asking for a light. In a blink the mood swiftly changed. It would always be so with Reggie, Gladys thought; tantalizingly near, but never really there.